


Taking one for the team

by orphan_account



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 19:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2399453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All Tarn needs is his voice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking one for the team

**Author's Note:**

> jesus i have no idea what im doing this is the first fic ive written EVER and im aware its bad but bear with me im not even natively english *cartwheels away*

He realized his hands were free.

He didn’t recall the behemoth’s iron grip ever leaving his wrists. Primus knew how long they’d been like that.

Frankly he blamed his slip on his current predicament: sitting on the huge mech’s thigh, his own legs spread obscenely wide by the sheer girth of the appendage beneath his aft, the mech’s fingers raking across his back, deceivingly gentle, almost reassuring.

Krok placed them on the tank’s thigh. It wasn’t as if he retained much power even with his hands free. He could’ve punched him in the face, granted, but where would that get him? Tarn didn’t need restraints to keep him in check, not when his whispers alone clutched and caressed his spark like a twisted mockery of a lover’s embrace; not when with only a hiss he was as good as dead. Not when his slow litany of depravities made his spark boil and his legs shake in arousal.

"Look at you."

The hand on his back made a slow trek downwards, towards his aft. The tank circled the opening there with a single digit, collecting the lubricant that had seeped free once his cover had clicked open, a hundred flithy words ago.

His - free - hands flew to tank’s threads, needing something to hold on to, overwhelmed with lust with his voice alone— let alone his touch. That solicited a hum from the DJD leader, apparently pleased by his reaction.

"You’re dripping," he commented, keeping his motion, that sinful voice once again sending a surge of arousal through the historian’s lines.

Krok sobbed. When Tarn had started this… session, torture session, he’d willed himself not to make any noise, lest his crew hear him through the corridors of the facility. He was all too aware of how close the cells were. The bastard though had kept the door of what he’d later come to realize was his quarters open, and after the first shriek of pain he’d torn out of his vocalizer he knew that not only his crewmates but probably the entirety of the DJD had heard him. He was powerless.

He sobbed again. Tarn shifted his aft minutely high and up.

Krok couldn’t say, not by a long shot, that he preferred his previous treatment to this current one. His limbs were still weary from his near-death experience. The tank fondled the swollen folds of his valve and he dropped his head on the massive chest right in front of his face with a stifled groan.

The cries of his crew still rang in his audio receptors. He knew each had been handed to a different member of the DJD, as if they were the likes of slaves, pets. It only made sense the leader of the DJD would take the leader of the WAP for him to play with. Since they’d been apprehended he had only had a chance to hear their screams as those monsters did Primus knew what to them, so he couldn’t be certain of what had been of them; he’d recognized Fulcrum’s panicked pleas, twice, so he’d guessed the group of slagging glitches shared, or maybe swapped their new toys; he’d heard Crankcase and the crackle of Kaon’s Tesla coils, Misfire’s frantic babbling and the tank-churning sounds of a grinder in motion.

Krok clutched the threads tighter, shaking uncontrollably, his resolve to keep quiet long gone to the Pits as he moaned freely, giving a squeeze of his hands each time that fragging digit reached his exterior node. “I thought I’d made myself clear, _Krok,”_ another surge of forced arousal - another squeeze - ”All you need to do,” he paused to part his outer folds open, ”Is ask.”

Lubricant stained his aft and thighs and dripped to the floor. He was trembling from pent-up charge and shame. He couldn’t even put a stop to his noises anymore. And yet, despite the lust burning through his lines, despite the weariness heaving in his chassis, he wouldn’t - couldn’t - bring himself to say the word.

He’d failed his team. They relied on him, on his judgement, and he’d failed them. They all were in their current situation because of him.

Mortification lighted up his faceplates and made his optics sting. He deserved this, he thought. It was all his fault and—

"My patience grows weary, _Krok_.”

Tarn didn’t need restraints to establish complete and _visceral_ control over him. Not when with a single word, he could make Krok’s resolve crumble before his optics.

“ _Please!_ " he wailed, head sinking between his shoulders, aft tilted as far as it would go, valve clenching on itself, "Please fraggit please just— end this—".

A hand trapped his chin, tipping his face up. Tarn’s optics were burning into his as he eased a single digit in him, "Optics on me," he crooked his finger, a pathetic whine escaping the smaller mech, "And don’t you look away."

The tactician’s valve seemed to mimic to movements of his own body, walls trembling and gripping at the single invading digit being pushed in and out of him, few droplets of coolant escaping from his optics; and still his optics were locked on the face of the huge mech looming over him, the fear of the consequences far greater than the humiliation.

His vents hitched as the tank added another finger and let out a choked, drawn-out moan as he pressed them against a sensitive node deep in his valve. He squirmed, trying to escape the merciless stimulation, and the hand on his chin tightened. “Afraid your crew will know how much you’re enjoying yourself, _captain_?” he said, his words tugging directly at Krok’s spark, and he _screamed_. He screamed and cried and shouted, body spasming and coolant streaming freely on his face, his optics closed shut but his face still tilted up towards his captor’s face, the grip on his chin effectively stilling his movements, “Keep me amused, captain, and _maybe_ I’ll consider sparing you and your pathetic ragtag bunch.”

His hands clawed at the behemoth, unable to keep still while the grasp on his spark eased and he was finally able to speak, “P-please,” a choked sob, “Y-y-yuh—” he gulped, trying to control his shaking,”Yes p-please!”

He heard another hum coming from Tarn and he opened his optics when he heard a click, in time to see the tank’s panel unlatching and his spike rapidly pressurising; his hands shot up on the arm holding his face up, closing and instantly reopening his optics - remembering Tarn’s warning -, the greatest humiliation he’d felt in his entire function forming a knot in his throat. He allowed this to happen. It was over.

Krok cried out again once he felt another digit sliding in his valve beside the others, soon followed by another, aided by the copious amount of lubricant coating the array, his own fingers clutching at Tarn’s arm and body shifting restlessy as he tried to make as much noise as he could, as much of a good show as possible. For his team, he told himself. He was doing all this for the sake of his team. Nevermind the unbearable heat coming from his valve or the charge making his EM field go wild. He would endure this and everything the tank would throw at him.

The tank removed the hand from his chin and pushed the small mech squirming on his lap closer to his own array, the squelching noise coming from the mech’s valve and those coming out of his vocalizer making his spike twitch; oh, he was gonna enjoy this. Tarn pulled his fingers out of the mech - wringing a gasp out of him - only to place them on his hip, and hitched him up on his spike, rubbing the tip on the opening, waiting to see just what other noises he could coax from the wretched traitor.

Another frustrated moan built up in the tactician’s throat, hands once again latching on the tank’s threads, pleading optics staring somewhere on the DJD leader’s forehead. “…P-please, please.” He took a deep, shaky vent. He wanted to get it over with, but dared not voice it. “Primus, f-f-frag me Tarn, please.”

Krok actually _felt_ the rumbling, amused chuckle that vibrated through the tank, and he would've growled at him in fury if his processor hadn’t currently been clouded by a haze of desperate lust. But alas his processor was currently clouded by a haze of desperate lust, and all he did as Tarn slowly, _slowly_ eased him down his - impressive - spike was moaning at the ceiling, feeling every inch entering him, every ridge and bump rubbing against his sensors and he was so close, so _so_ close, and why wasn’t he overloading and oh, oh _frag--_

The purple mech felt his spike jump again just at the sight of the small mech perched on his spike, little sobbing pants falling openly from his vocalizer. He purred upon seeing of the gaping valve stretched over his spike and again he traced his finger over his port, the claws on his captive’s back twitching as the deserter bowed his back screaming some gibberish that sounded an awful lot like his designation, valve clamping down and spark going haywire from the denied overload; but Tarn’s wish was its command, and what Tarn wanted was to draw this out as much as he pleased. 

Which… wasn’t much longer considering his own state. His vents would give out at this rate. Oh well. Maybe another time.

He drew the little mech up until only the head of his cord remained nestled in his valve and teased both a little longer as the mech covered his face with a hand, the other clenching and unclenching rhythmically on the purple decepticon's threads.

Krok wouldn't stop shuddering and whimpering out pleas, grinding on the massive spike just inside his opening like a two-credit buymech and shame could wait until later because Primus this felt all too fragging good and he was too slagging wound up to care and the pit-spawned glitch wouldn't just _move_.

Tarn locked his hands on the smaller mech's waist, stilling him, noting with an unseen smug grin how he'd started to eagerly press on his spike, and when the other hid his face in his chest barely muttering what was _definitely_ his designation he'd officially had enough.

He thrust up, shoving Krok's hips down on him, pistoning in and out of the sopping wet valve and he knew he was hitting his ceiling node dead-on because the enticing little mech was positively _convulsing_ on his spike.

"Please please, _frag!_ P-please a-ah, ah! A-aahh please Tarn--"

"What would your little group of misfits think of you if they saw you right now?"

Krok lowered his head even more, coolant staining his faceplates and uncontrollable tremors rattling his frame as he bounced on that thick spike, overload just at arm's reach and vocalizer spitting static. He felt his head being forced up once again. "You will overload," he growled out with a vicious thrust, "And you will scream my name," he could feel calipers gripping at his spike, "So that they may know just what their leader has been up to."

And as he felt the spike's tip jabbing relentlessly against the top of his valve, he did.


End file.
